In an eerie reprisal of the events that took place three years ago, today, I've been up since the wee hours of the morning with a squirming baby, vegging out in front of the Christmas tree lights.

Three years ago, at four o'clock in the morning, I gave up trying to pack overnight bags for my two sick kids and lumbered into the living room. I lay awkwardly across the couch, body surging with contractions, resting my eyes on our twinkling christmas lights and debating whether to wake my family.

This morning, at four o'clock, I was prodded awake by a three year old who had things on her mind. Things she needed to work out verbally. With an audience. I untangled my feet from my twisted comforter and followed my chirping daughter to the living room. After an unsuccessful attempt to get her back to sleep (ha!) I flipped on the tree lights, and sprawled on the couch with my daughter.

"Mommy! I think the trees are hungry! Mommy! You wanna drive the trains? Mommy, let's have some ch-wock-late. Now, Mommy!" She wiggled and shifted on my lap, climbing this way and that. Giggling, she thrust her heel to my lips, and I kissed it, giggling myself. She thought she was being clever. I was remembering the still-in-utero acrobatics that were going on, three years ago, today.

For several years, I felt phantom baby kicks in my empty stomach, the after-effects of three pregnancies in five years. I haven't had any of those in a long time. I feel like today is a huge milestone, a departure from the land of "baby" to the wilds of "child" and I'm not sure what to feel about it.

On one hand, I'm thrilled. Soon, there will be no more diapers! (If I can ever convince this kid to pee-pee on the pot-tay!) Soon, there will be three kids who can fasten their own seatbelts! Who can open doors and tie shoes and wash dishes and mow the lawn and drive and...

Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. But judging from the last three years, it will be sooner than I'm ready for. Except the dishes part. I'm ready for that.

On the other hand, I'm crushed. My babies are all big and leggy and mouthy and full of big ideas. My youngest has pushed the growing up envelope since birth - she came out in a hurry, and has been barking at the fence ever since. She knows there's a wonderful world out there just waiting for her. There are fields to gambol in. There are oceans to cross. There are blank walls, awaiting her crayon.

And then there's me. Trying to keep it together. Wishing I could simultaneously freeze her and punt her right past the tantrum phase. Hoping that my quirks and faults are actually assets, or at least not passed on genetically, and suspecting otherwise.

I spend my days watching her screech and soar like a lemur in the treetops, trying to decide whether to cheer or hide my eyes. Whether to laugh or cry, which inevitably leads to the crazy happy-sad crying.

At three years old, my oldest daughter seemed so baby-like to me. She still had the softly rounded cheeks, the baby curls at the nape of her neck, a few funny words that she used to describe ordinary objects. My son was even more baby-like, with his round tummy and square feet. He still needed me so much. My newly minted three year old seems like a teenager, round cheeks nonwithstanding. I feel like we should be giving her a cell-phone instead of the lap harp she'll be getting at dinner tonight.

(This really is getting to be a 'thing' with me. I give my kids musical instruments right and left. I'm thinking I have latent tendencies towards forming a family rock band that have yet to manifest. Can you see us in fringed spandex? Busting out a groovy tune and driving around in a psychedelic bus?)

Three years ago, today, I became a mother for the third time. It was a magical, surprising event. I was stunned at the speed of her birth. I was shocked at the amount of work a third child adds. I continue to be baffled at the rapid-fire passage of time.

At six o'clock this morning, I held my squirrelly daughter close and listened to her babble about trees and trains and Dora the Explorer. As the moment of her birth passed, she paused in her monologue for a little thumbsucking and ear-pulling, with her head nestled against my chest. With a shuddering sigh, I felt my eyes well up and that familiar tang of bittersweet rise. My vision blurred into a colorful kaleidoscope of tears and Christmas lights, just like it did three years ago, today.